Bruce Wayne: SpiderMan
by Seamus O'Seamus
Summary: Bruce Wayne has spent his entire adult life preparing for his war on crime; all he needs is a symbol. Something even evil will fear.
1. Chapter 1

The pain was not what bothered him, though the pain was great. A warm, dull, throbbing ache reminded him every second that he had a bullet lodged in his arm. Images from medical textbooks and coroner's reports illustrated the story in his head; nicked arteries, a chipped humerus. Soon, he would die.

The journey home was not what infuriated him, though the journey home had been agony. He had fallen off of rooftops, stumbled through alleys, and caused car wrecks, all the way leaving drops of blood with which any competent technician could identify him. Soon, he would be found out.

The betrayal was not what broke him, though the betrayal was heinous. In truth, he should have known that the police could not be trusted. He should have known that the pimp would have them on his payroll. Soon, what little he had been able to do would be forgotten.

That was what bothered him, infuriated him, broke him. The knowledge that he had accomplished nothing ate away at his core even as his hand went numb, fingers grazing against the cold metal of the bell.

_If I ring this bell_, he thought, _Alfred will save me_. The old butler had military training, and hearing sharper than what his age would imply. He could save his life, administer care as he had done so many times before. He would become a medic for his charge's war.

_If I ring this bell_, he thought. _If I can fight the war_. Years spent honing his body and his mind had been thrown away in a few bursts of light and frenzied, chaotic sounds. What had gone wrong? The pimp had thrown a punch, drawn a knife, slashed at him. The little girl screamed for help. Attacks on all sides. Sirens screaming. Police shouting. The women in black fighting him, holding her own, running as the police came near.

He raised his hands to show he was unarmed. They shot him.

Now he was here, alone. Dying slowly. Dying slowly, because something was wrong with his war.

He had the skills. He had the knowledge. He had the plan; had had it since the day his parents had been taken from him.

_My parents_. He looked up, saw his father staring down at him sternly; his mother, smiling with gentle grace. And he saw himself, a boy, oblivious to what his life would become.

He had everything he needed to fight his war. Everything, save a way to tie it all together.

_Father?_

The crooks, the killers, the leeches; they were too powerful to fight alone.

_Mother?_

They were too powerful to fight as one man. They had too many things in their favor. Too many advantages.

_Have I done right?_

They had intimidation on their side. They had brutality, they had hatred and deception and manipulation…

_Have I put what you have given me to good use?_

They had fear on their side.

_Father? Guide my hand_.

He needed them to fear him.

_What shall I do?_

He needed to be more than a man.

He saw something glide across the blackness at the edges of his vision. Something on the window. Something massive, terrible.

He stared as it crawled up the glass with alien finesse, its eight legs maneuvering flawlessly. It stopped its climb, its shaped framed perfectly by the Moon. The light cast its silhouette across his entire study, and he knew what to do.

_Yes, father._

He rang the bell.

_I shall become a spider_.


	2. Chapter 2

I can feel their eyes crawling over me as my name is called and I step up in front of the board. I take a quick glance at my notes to make sure everything is in order. It is. Gotham's finest inspect me with sullen eyes, wondering when I'll let them go to collect their drug money. It won't be seen, I can assure them that.

"Right," I start, never having been very good at formal speeches. "At around two this morning, we got a report of assault-and-battery in Robinson Park."

"What else is new?" someone hollers, and the room erupts with laughter. I add their face to my (rapidly growing) list of Those In Dire Need Of A Kick In The Pants.

Shuffling my notes reminds them that this meeting is not going to end any time soon and that I don't much appreciate their jokes. The laughter dies down. I continue.

"This comes after other reports of similar cases in Monolith Square, the Smythe Complex, Old Gotham—particularly around Crime Alley—and Amusement Mile," I say, working backwards. I unveil a sheet of paper, a map of the city, and unfold it. "I've marked the dates, locations, and approximate times when these assaults took place. You'll notice a trend as you examine them." I hold the map up so those few who are still awake can see.

"We've had twenty-six reported assaults over the past five days. Eight of which occurred last night. The frequency of attacks is increasing, leading me to believe the attacker is—"

"Hold it, Jim," Flass waves his massive hand through the air in what he thinks is a calming gesture. I haven't gotten around to telling him not to call me Jim. Only my friends and superiors get to do that; he's neither. "What makes you think it's one guy doing all this?"

_Because punks like you are too busy snorting to do your jobs_. "Because there are a few common elements to each case," I say, doing my best not to bite right through my tongue. I avoid Flass' chiding squint and address the room as a whole. "First, each victim was found handcuffed. Second, each victim was found with a note placed either on their person or within a few feet of them. And third, each described their attacker in virtually the same way."

There's the slightest ripple of curiosity going through the crowd now. Even Flass' interest is piqued. Someone asks what the notes said. I pause to savor the moment; I probably won't have their attention again until my funeral.

With a little dramatic flair, I hold up one of the notes retrieved from Robinson Park. There are no words, only a black symbol.

"It's a spider," I say. "The same thing that the victims say attacked them."

"Captain J. Jonah Jameson, everyone!" Flass steps up next to me, having decided my time is up. "Still chasing boogiemen!"

I let them laugh at me. I let them give mock applause. I let them ignore their duty as police officers. I collect my notes and leave, knowing at least that they'll have the spider in the back of their minds as they wander the city on drunken patrols.

I've started calling it The Spider, yes. Call it obsession. Call it a crusade. But I know two things they've chosen to ignore in ridiculing me: last night, the Spider put a cop in the emergency room. Broke both his legs and half his ribs.

Second, it's working it's way south, towards the police station.


End file.
